


Tangled Paths

by estelraca



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Betrayal, Duty, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takatora always took what he thought was the best path--the only path, really.  He was the good son, the noble aristocrat, the leader who did what must be done.  One of the few things he did for himself was loving Sengoku Ryouma.  So how did things end up so far off track?  Spoilers through episode 28 of Kamen Rider Gaim.  Written for Kazuraba-Kouta's End of Gaim Songfic Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangled Paths

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for Kazuraba-Kouta's End of Gaim Songfic Challenge. There are SPOILERS through Episode 28 of Gaim; also warning for dark themes in here. The song used as an introduction and section breaks is "Into My Arms" by Angelzoom, a haunting little song I'm quite fond of that I think works quite well with Takatora. It can be listened to at: watch?v=t9zUH-OHiy0

_My steps within three feet elsewhere_

_They say: don't dare, don't leave that square_

Takatora always knew that he was special.

His father gave him no opportunity to forget it. (Perhaps his mother would have let him, but she died when he was young, shortly after Mitsuzane was born, and Takatora has few memories of her. Did she praise him? Did she punish him? Did she care about him at all? He doesn't remember. All he sees when he pictures her is a faint, faded woman staring out the window, her reflection in the dark glass somehow seeming more real than she is.)

He was intelligent—he knew that from a young age. From the first time his schoolmates struggled and sniveled and banged their heads against a problem the teacher had given them while he breezed through it, he knew that there was something different about him.

If he had known what was to come, would he have acted differently? Would he have pretended that it was difficult when it really wasn't? Would he have helped his friends more instead of staring at them in confusion, not understanding why they had so much trouble?

He was just a child, then, and he didn't know what was to come, and he didn't hide his intelligence. Before long he found himself separated from the children that had been his friends, placed in advanced classes, in special schools, in special groups. He adapts, because he has no other choice; he focuses on his schoolwork, because it is plain and simple and comprehensible, unlike the wild undulations of emotion and need that most people wield.

He sees his father rarely. His father is busy—his father is saving the world. Takatora knows that before he knows what his father actually _does_. It is how he introduces his father to his teachers. It is what he writes essays on, when his handwriting is still choppy and blocky and barely legible.

_Noblesse oblige_ , the duty that keeps his father from him, the duty that Takatora inherits, and he wonders, sometimes, if those were his first words.

They are certainly as much of a parent to him as his father is.

Not that his father is cruel. His father is fair and impartial. He gives praise for success—a pat on the head, a hint of a smile, an extra hour of time during which he helps Takatora understand the world that he is going to inherit.

He gives punishment for failure. He only hits Takatora a handful of times, but each blow seems to etch itself into Takatora's body, a memory he can never forget, as his father's disdainful, disappointed disavowals etch themselves into Takatora's mind when Takatora fails to live up to expectations.

He must be the best. He must be the strongest, the swiftest, the smartest, the most cunning.

He must be the best because he has been born to it, and because he has been born to it he will be the best.

( _Come back, my dreams_ )

He has no friends when he arrives at college. He misses them, sometimes—not the sharp ache of relationships that have ended, but the dull longing for something he hasn't had in years. He has other things to focus on, though, other things to take his attention—he is going to be taking over the company once his degree is acquired. He is going to be taking over Mitsuzane's education, raising the boy so that their father can focus on more important things. He is going to be continuing the family line—likely through an arranged marriage, once his father determines he is ready, a fact he doesn't mind.

He is going to be the perfect son.

He is going to save the world.

And then he meets Sengoku Ryouma.

He meets the man by accident. He is walking down the hall of the chemistry building when Ryouma is thrown physically from one of the labs. The man's white lab coat is scorched and stained; his hair, shoulder-length, is tied back in a ponytail; and his lip is bleeding, a trail of crimson oozing from the right side.

His eyes land on Takatora, and the look in them combined with the slight, almost mocking smile on Ryouma's face instantly arrests Takatora's attention.

"Get out!" The professor bellows the words at Ryouma, his frame filling the doorway, his hands braced against the doorjamb. "If I ever see you again, I guarantee you won't walk away."

"Give me a passing grade." Ryouma stands slowly, his eyes fixed on the man in the doorway. "You know I've earned it. Give me that, and we won't go before an administrative review board to discuss this gross breech of ethics. Really, striking a _student_ , professor?" Ryouma waggles his blood-coated fingers at the man. "However will you explain that?"

"Anyone who knows you would understand." The professor's face is a deep, angry red, his words still a low growl. "You'll get nothing from me, you—"

"Sir." Takatora steps forward, angling his body so that he isn't quite on Ryouma's side but is clearly in opposition to the professor. "I would be careful what words you say right now."

The man's glower turns to Takatora, but Takatora simply meets his eyes. He has faced far worse stares and far more important men without flinching.

Apparently taken aback by something in Takatora's face, the professor straightens, eyes narrowed. "And who are you?"

"Kureshima Takatora." Takatora doesn't smile as the professor pulls back at his family name. It is only natural that everyone knows their family, and it is only natural for those with less power to fear those with greater. "Do you have a complaint to make about this man?"

"Nothing I can prove, sadly." The professor draws in a deep breath and gives a disgusted grunt of dissatisfaction. "You'll get your passing grade, Sengoku. The heavens know it's not your grasp of the material that's faulty. But you are not welcome in my lab ever again. Understood?"

"A satisfactory solution." Ryouma's lips curve in an expression that isn't quite a smile. Then he looks at Takatora, and his expression shifts, becomes more open... almost friendly. "Would you care to walk with me for a bit, Kureshima Takatora? I think we're both done here."

Takatora should continue on—he has an appointment with his own professor in thirty minutes, and had intended to do some studying before then. He is curious about this young man, though, and after only a brief hesitation he nods and follows Ryouma.

"Sengoku Ryouma. That's my name." The young man practically skips as he leads them toward the nearest restroom. "Why did you help me back there?"

Takatora shrugs. He takes up a position against the wall while Ryouma goes about cleaning the blood from his face and hands. "He was doing something he shouldn't have been."

"Is that all?" Ryouma's voice is faintly disappointed as he dabs at the cut on his lip. "Just being the white knight?"

"Being someone in a position of power. Those in power are supposed to use their strength to benefit those beneath them—not use that strength to injure, as he was doing."

"Being the white knight." Ryouma turns to face Takatora, his swollen lip giving him an expression almost like a sneer. "Just doing what you're supposed to do, eh?"

"Doing what I _want_ to do." Takatora makes the correction quietly, allowing his voice to become softer and colder as Ryouma's increases in volume. "Would you care to explain to me what it was that I interrupted?"

Ryouma shrugs. "He didn't like some of the research I was doing, or how I was going about doing it. Useless grunt—I know more about his subject than he does, and he knows it. Just because he doesn't understand what I'm doing doesn't mean he gets to stop me."

Takatora relaxes somewhat as he watches Ryouma, the young man leaning against the sink now, long legs stretched out in front of him. He understands that look on Ryouma's face—a look of mixed frustration and disgust. Ryouma is telling the truth about his abilities. "Is it research that you want to continue doing?"

Ryouma straightens slightly, turning to Takatora with one eyebrow raised. "Of course."

"I can probably arrange that." Takatora allows his own lips to curve slightly. "Unless, of course, it would bother you to be rescued again by the white knight."

"Depends what kind of catch the white knight would put on it." Ryouma raises one finger to tap gently against his chin. "I'm not some kind of science whore that will just give you anything I find because you help pay the bills."

Takatora knows he shouldn't make any promises. He should sit down with someone from Yggdrasil and draw up a contract and ensure that everything Ryouma ever does will belong to the company. He sees something in Ryouma's eyes that makes him throw caution to the wind, though—a twinkle, a hint of a smirk, a surety that tells him that Ryouma is special, too. And special people should be given the tools they need to do what they were born to do. "You'll work for me, but I won't steal any of your ideas. I'll just provide the space and the physical objects you need to do your research."

"Why?" Ryouma asks the question without any heat, a simple query as his eyes rake over Takatora slowly.

Heat seems to flow through Takatora's body in a stream, following the path of Ryouma's eyes. "Because I like the way your eyes look. I think there's something special in you, and I want to see what you can create."

Ryouma's face breaks into a smile, and Takatora blinks as he feels his face heat. Prowling past him, Ryouma reaches out and places one hand on Takatora's shoulder. "I don't think you'll be disappointed."

Takatora follows Ryouma out of the bathroom, watches as the other man skips lightly down the hall. He doesn't call after Ryouma, doesn't ask how Ryouma will contact him.

He is certain that if Ryouma wants to, Ryouma will find him again.

He's just a bit surprised by how excited he is at the prospect.

( _Come back, my dreams_ )

Ryouma has a reputation.

Takatora finds out about it slowly, from bits and pieces of conversation overheard as well as subtle hints that others let fall. Ryouma is dangerous; Ryouma is taciturn; Ryouma will burn anyone who comes in contact with him.

Takatora can understand where the rumors come from. The researchers at Yggdrasil seem uncertain about this new element dropped into their midst, but they adapt, and Ryouma is as frighteningly good at his job as Takatora had suspected. Every week, it seems, the man has something new and exciting he wishes to try, some little bit of theory he wants to test.

Takatora doesn't understand even half of it, but he understands Ryouma's enthusiasm, and he understands the cautiously optimistic reports from others that flow across his desk.

He made the right choice in snatching up Ryouma, even if it had been a quick decision.

And if Ryouma seems to celebrate each little victory, each small step forward with his research by touching Takatora... well, that's just Ryouma's way. It doesn't mean anything. What's a touch on the hand? What's a pat on the shoulder? What's it really mean, a quick, tight hug, their bodies pressing close together?

Perhaps Ryouma spent some time in the West. Perhaps that's why he's so physical with Takatora.

Perhaps he's like that with everyone. (Though Takatora knows that isn't true, knows that Ryouma doesn't hug his research staff, doesn't touch any of his superiors other than Takatora—not that Ryouma is prone to admitting _anyone_ as his superior...)

Takatora tells himself, over and over, that it means nothing. The fact that he looks forward to their small interactions, their small physical contacts, means nothing.

He believes it, even, until Ryouma kisses him.

If he had known, then, what the fruit would mean—the shiny purple fruit, too green and slick, its flesh so soft it was almost unreal—perhaps he wouldn't have allowed it. Perhaps he would have refused any contact with anyone.

He didn't know, though. Even Ryouma didn't know then what he held, not really, though he knew enough to be giddy with excitement over the research possibilities.

And in his giddiness he followed Takatora out of the lab, out of the building, into the parking garage.

He was still chattering as Takatora opened his car—still talking as he spun Takatora around, pressed their bodies close together, Ryouma's leg creeping between Takatora's in a delightful way, and crashed their lips together.

When Ryouma pulls back after only a second, Takatora's hands move of their own volition, grabbing Ryouma's lab coat and pulling Ryouma back in for another kiss.

He doesn't let the kiss linger long. He can't. He is too aware that someone might come—someone might see. He is too aware that he is Kureshima Takatora, and he is going to marry someone and carry on the family line, and there is no possible way that kissing one of his male researchers is appropriate.

Ryouma steps back when Takatora releases him, his eyes scanning up and down Takatora possessively, bringing heat once again with every pass. "Come to my house tonight, Taka. There's some other research I'd like to try with you."

And though he knows he shouldn't, though he knows he has no right to do so, Takatora nods.

He is giving his whole life to the world and his father and Yggdrasil; how much can it really hurt to give his body to Sengoku Ryouma?

_My will, their will, can move, stand still_   
_My part, no heart, I must fulfill_

His graduation present is finding out that the world is going to end.

His father tells him in short, succinct sentences. There is a presentation prepared, with graphs and figures and time-tables. There is everything he will need to know, everything he will need to do, presented in tricolor simplicity.

He says perhaps three sentences during the meeting.

The last one is, "Of course I will fulfill my duty."

What other choice is there? If the choice is between letting everyone die and killing some unknown fraction to save others, there is really no option at all.

He goes through the rest of the day in numb silence. He does his duty, as he swore he would. He explains what needs to be explained to his research team—to Ryouma, who asks the most incisive questions and watches Takatora with glittering, eager eyes.

Ryouma was instrumental in learning the basics of how Helheim Forest works, and Ryouma has provided the first hints of hope for the future. If he is right, if there is a chance of harnessing the power inherent in the fruit, then Takatora's decision to bring him into Yggdrasil was one of the best ones he ever made.

Ryouma follows him out of the conference room. That isn't too strange—everyone leaves at the same point—but Ryouma keeps following him, staying on Takatora's heels until they reach Takatora's office.

Takatora doesn't tell him to follow, but he doesn't tell him to leave, either. He even leaves the door to his office open a few seconds extra so that Ryouma can slip through, his body moving with the combination of lithe grace and childlike energy that Takatora admires.

Ryouma stands in front of Takatora's desk, blocking Takatora's way to his seat. "Tell me what you're not telling them."

Takatora moves to shoulder past Ryouma, and stops when Ryouma places a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at the man. "What do you mean?"

"I mean there's something else you're not telling us—something more than just that this extremely invasive species of plant is coming in from another dimension." Ryouma smiles, a broad, half-predatory look. "Something I could have told you, anyway, since I was the one who provided that information."

Takatora presses his lips together. "There's nothing else to tell."

Ryouma's hand tightens. "There is."

Takatora studies his hands, and then raises tired eyes to meet Ryouma's again. "All right. Current projections give us somewhere between fifteen and twenty years before the forest completely decimates all life on Earth, either transforming or eradicating it."

Ryouma whistles, a sound so high-pitched it is almost impossible to hear. "That's why they're so eager to see us come up with ideas on how to kill or harness it."

Takatora nods.

"I will, you know." Ryouma's fingers tighten on Takatora's shoulder, and with a gentle pressure Ryouma turns Takatora to face him. "The two of us are special. I'm not going to let something as pathetic as a _plant_ kill us."

"It's not just us." Takatora allows himself to be turned, his body close to Ryouma's—so close he can feel the heat coming off Ryouma's body. "There's a whole world depending on us—"

"There's always a world." Ryouma's free hand comes up, traces along Takatora's cheek. "But right now there's a _new_ world, a new universe, opportunities like we've never dreamed of. Takatora, do you have any idea what I can do with the toys you've given me here? I can make _wonders_."

Leaning into the touch, closer and closer to Ryouma, Takatora allows his eyes to slit shut. "You can find a way to save us?"

"I can find a way to make you a god." Ryouma's whisper is the quietest brush against Takatora's ear, and then Ryouma's mouth is tight against his. Warm, questing, Ryouma's tongue brushing against Takatora's lips, and he _wants_ this, he wants to feel _this_ after everything else today, he so desperately wants—

But now is not the place, and now is not the time. There are people counting on Takatora, and here, in the heart of the kingdom his father built, he cannot throw aside all that he is meant to be.

Taking a step back from Ryouma, licking his lips and trying hard not to let his breathing be rough, he shakes his head. "Not here. Not now."

"As you like." Ryouma's tone is gently teasing, his fingers infuriatingly warm as they run down Takatora's neck and slip off. "I think, though, that I'll need you to help me with my research. At my house, perhaps? Every evening that I manage to make some headway on this absolutely fascinating problem that you've given me?"

"I think..." Takatora allows a smile to slide across his own face as he takes another controlled step away from Ryouma and closer to his desk. "That I can arrange that."

"Good." Ryouma claps his hands together and backs toward the door. "I'll see you this evening, then."

Takatora is smiling as he turns to his desk, something he wasn't expecting.

"Oh, and Takatora?"

Raising his head, he lifts both eyebrows in silent query at Ryouma.

Ryouma lounges against the doorframe, a wicked smirk on his face. "Wear the suit."

Takatora's face burns for the next fifteen minutes, and though he hates himself a bit, he is glad, right then, to feel anything.

_Like a rising Monster_   
_All veiled in grey_   
_See the walls of Dawn_   
_They warn you of the day_

"I will make you a god."

Ryouma's voice is a hot whisper, a promise against Takatora's naked neck.

Takatora can't respond with words. Ryouma has pushed him far beyond words, and all he can do is strain against the bonds that Ryouma placed around his wrists—at Takatora's quiet request—and wait for the next brush of Ryouma's fingers against his body.

"We're special, you and I."

Ryouma is very good at modulating his voice, at choosing the tone to achieve just the reaction from his audience that he wants. Right now he is using a soft, firm whisper, each word a caress against Takatora's ear. His hands are both down at Takatora's hips, rubbing in small circles, moving slowly inward.

"Your body is beautiful."

Ryouma's voice breaks just slightly, a hint of stronger emotion as his hands move to the inside of Takatora's thighs, urging his legs apart.

"But more importantly, I've never seen anyone who _understands_ like you do, Taka."

Ryouma's fingers are firm as they prepare him, and Takatora gasps. He refuses to do more, refuses to gasp again or beg or plead. He has his pride, and though he enjoys this—enjoys it more than he should, more than he would ever have admitted once upon a time—he will not beg for it.

"And I'm so close. So close, so close."

A whimper oozes its way between Takatora's lips despite his best efforts as Ryouma slides into him, the motion slow and smooth and practiced. He opens his eyes wide, wanting to see Ryouma's face, the joy and release on it as Ryouma rides them both to climax.

He knows that Ryouma is close to a breakthrough. These trysts of theirs have been becoming more frequent, Ryouma's reports more eager and barely comprehensible. He believes that he can harness the power of the forest into a belt, a device that will grant both power and the ability to survive in the forest. In return for helping to save the world, he asks only this of Takatora—only what Takatora wants, though he shouldn't. Only that Takatora choose this and them, allow them both to be happy, when the rules that he was given as a young man should tell them both that this is pointless.

"I'll make you a god, and together we'll go into the new world, and we will make it _ours_." Ryouma's breathing picks up, his hands grasping on to Takatora's body and holding tight. Takatora will have bruises on his arms and chest to match the ones Ryouma gave him earlier on his neck, but he knows how to wear his suit so that none of them will show.

He climaxes before Ryouma, his breathing picking up speed alongside his oldest friend's, and he catches his breath in his throat for a moment before Ryouma also comes and collapses atop him.

"Save it." Takatora clears his throat, surprised to find how raw it feels. "We'll save the world."

"Whatever you want to do with it." Ryouma's hands trail over Takatora's cheeks and neck, and he laughs, a soft, breathless sound that makes him seem younger than his years. "Whatever you want to do. That's the great thing about being gods. We can do _anything_."

He should correct Ryouma. He should explain that just because they're special, just because they're different, doesn't mean they're gods.

He's happy right now, though, happy and content in a way that he rarely is—in a way that he rarely allows himself to dream of being—and he doesn't want to ruin that.

_Their will, my will, just act, don't feel_   
_Their kind, my kind, brought me to heal_

He will kill six billion people.

He will kill six billion people, and by bathing in their blood he will save one billion. He will use children as guinea pigs and a living city as a test ground and watch as they all burn, because they are numbers and he is a Kureshima and their sacrifice, willing or not, is needed to give the world a fighting chance.

He will save Mitsuzane and he will save Ryouma and he will save who he can from the rest of the world, and he will hope that they don't damn him for it when all is said and done.

The belt that Ryouma finally perfected for him is a thing of beauty. He had thanked Ryouma for it, over and over, but there is something missing from their relationship now. Though he still goes to Ryouma's house more than he should—though Ryouma still invites him—there is a spark missing from Ryouma's eyes ever since the Drivers went into mass production.

Perhaps it's just the stress of what they are going to do. Perhaps it's the stress of being asked to do the impossible—to define worlds that work by different rules from theirs, to cage these places of magic and horror, to explain them and break them down into rules that can be utilized.

Perhaps, but Takatora doesn't think so.

He hurt Ryouma.

He knows when it was, too. He knows that something fractured between them in the hospital room after the failed experiment with the Sengoku Driver prototype. He knows that something he said there—something he did—struck Ryouma as wrong.

What, though?

What could he have said that was wrong?

He said that they needed to create more Drivers, as quickly as possible.

How could anyone argue with that? How could anything be more important than lessening the number—the agonizing, horrible, numbing number—of dead to Takatora's name?

He doesn't understand, and he cannot apologize for saying what was honestly true.

After enough time, he begins to think that it doesn't matter. He begins to think that he was, perhaps, mistaken—that there is nothing different between himself and Ryouma, that the man he escapes with to a world where he is not a Kureshima and he is not a destroyer and he has _choices_ does not inexplicably hate him for wanting to save the world.

They still work together, after all, Ryouma's mind finding alleys and subways and research paths that no one else can.

They still have sex, and Ryouma still compliments him, still tells him that his body is beautiful and the way the Driver looks on him is _stunning_ and caresses all the places that the armor clings in ways Takatora is convinced no one else ever would. (And if Ryouma no longer calls him a god, well, Takatora never said that he was or wanted to be one, so that is no loss.)

They still plan for the future together, though Ryouma seems less excited and interested, his gaze straying away after five or ten minutes where before he would talk for ages about what the new world could look like.

Different.

Things are different, scarred as surely as Takatora's shoulder. But like Takatora's shoulder, they have healed back into a shape that is functional and recognizable even if it isn't as pretty as it used to be.

For the man who will kill six billion, it is really more than he could have hoped for.

_Accused of something, nothing, all alone_   
_I had to bang the nails into my head_   
_The guilty one_

Kazuraba Kouta changes everything.

Takatora allows the changes to wash over him, to drag him along into a world where he maybe, possibly, doesn't have to kill six billion. He listens to Kazuraba as long as Kazuraba is making sense—as long as he understands where the boy is coming from, as long as Takatora can say that Kazuraba's words aren't just a child's refusal to accept what must be.

He wonders, as he makes his way back to his office to plan their new strategy, how the rest of them managed to miss so many opportunities. How did they come so close to destroying so much when there are other options?

How did he come so close to mass murder—how did he tell himself there was no choice—when a boy who never even dreamed of college can imagine other ways?

Was he too eager to take up the mantle of sacrifice?

Was he too eager to sacrifice others—to allow others to die, to set himself as judge and jury and gruesome executioner?

Was he too eager to forge a future that he could understand, could control, and thus blind to options that would require less of his soul but more optimism than he thinks he ever had to offer?

How had his father missed all of this, instead offering Takatora only the choice to kill or watch death spread?

How did Mitsuzane miss all of this—Mitsuzane, who is the same age as Kouta, who is a friend of Kouta's, who should see things in a similar fashion?

How did Ryouma miss so much of what has been happening in the forest that he studies as though it were a lover, a child, a god, the center of his universe?

In the end, though, the only one to blame is Takatora. He is the one in control—he is the one who chooses. He is the one who decided that six billion was a valid price to pay for one billion. He is the one who decided that destroying Zawame was a valid strategy to prevent worldwide panic.

He was the one who told himself he had no choice, when perhaps, just perhaps, he simply wasn't looking for a choice.

How many other parts of his life has he twisted in the same way?

How many other things has he been wrong about?

He doesn't know, but gods willing and Kouta being right (and he wants Kouta to be right, so desperately, wants someone to take the weight of genocide from his shoulders), he will get the opportunity to learn.

_Come back, my dream_   
_Into my arms_   
_Into my arms_

Ryouma betrayed him.

The others he could accept—could understand, in a way. Sid is a petty psychopath, desperately groping after power, even if it's something as sad and pathetic as controlling or killing children. Minato, though talented, is just as quiet and difficult to read as Takatora at his most withdrawn, and though her betrayal surprised him it didn't shock him.

But Ryouma...

Ryouma has been his friend since he wondered if it were possible for him to truly have friends. Ryouma has been at his side through this entire debacle.

Ryouma built the armor that he wears, the armor with a shoulder pad designed to protect the shoulder that was injured during their prototype testing, and though Takatora never asked he always assumed it was an apology of sorts.

And Ryouma wants him dead.

Maybe, if he had tried to reason with Ryouma earlier...

If he had told Ryouma that he wasn't a god...

If he had told his father that he wasn't special...

If he had believed, as Kouta so strongly believes, that every life has worth of its own, a worth that cannot be added and subtracted against other lives...

So many paths he sees now, spreading out before him, and how had he believed that he had no choices when he made them, over and over again?

How did he allow things to end like this?

His armor is going to break. Even the best fighter in the best armor can only take so much, and his body will break as his heart is breaking.

And then he sees Mitsuzane.

Mitsuzane, who is Kouta's friend.

Mitsuzane, who Takatora has raised as he was raised, but maybe, just maybe, not quite so harshly.

He dreamed, once, of friends and love and a world where he wasn't a killer of children and countries and hope.

Perhaps Mitsuzane, who hasn't bloodied his hands yet, can make that dream come true.

He clings to that hope as his armor shatters and he falls into darkness, the protection that his lover and his past gave him shattering like the smoke and glass and ashes it was built on.


End file.
